My Way
by NZea
Summary: The story of Spectacular Spectacular through the eyes of a girl in the audience. Please R/R!!


**My Way**

By Zea 

It was a wonderful show. 

The music, the dance, the powerful performances were all overwhelming. The gluttonous maharajah, the mysterious sitar player, and the beautifully enchanting courtesan. From the minute the curtains went up, with a booming yell of "She is mine!", I was enthralled. 

Living in upper-class Parisian society may sound great, but let's just say it wasn't my cup of tea. I had heard about the Bohemian Revolution, and Montmartre, the "village of sin," so dubbed by those envious of the freedom and beauty enclosed in those walls. I had ventured near the gates many times, only to lose courage halfway there and turn around, heading back to my home: the restricting brick-walled mansion that had choked me for all of my 18 years. Then, one day, just as I was about to turn again from the existence that I so desired, I saw a young lady, of about my age, walking down the "respectable" street that bordered Montmartre. She walked with elegance and poise, her hair perfectly arranged, waist pulled in to an impossible diameter by an expensive corset, and arm in arm with a hideous man. He looked about middle age, and was fat and ugly, with a leering smile on his face, apparently examining this fine specimen on his arm that he had been lucky enough to come upon. And when I saw this "couple", I realized that I could not turn out like that, I _would _not, and I walked straight through the gates of Montmartre. 

I was fascinated by the life inside those gates. The girls who didn't mind exposing much more flesh than was deemed appropriate. The men who staggered around, drunk off of absinthe, singing at the top of their lungs. However, the hour was already late, and I was expected home soon. But as I was heading towards the entrance, I saw an slim bald man in a neatly tailored suit walking down the streets holding a large box, accompanied by a rather haphazard looking older man hawking their wares. They were selling tickets to a show called "Spectacular Spectacular," to be shown at the Moulin Rouge, and it was, according to them, the first ever truly Bohemian show. The old man spoke through his grizzled beard of a beautiful courtesan, and the man she falls in love with. He said that the play embodied the Bohemian ideas of truth, beauty, freedom, and above all things, love. Before I knew what I was doing, my feet had carried me towards the two men and my mouth had asked for one ticket, please. I paid them the money, of which I had plenty, and the younger man handed me my ticket out of the box he was holding with graceful, artistic fingers. The old man smiled and took a swig from a bottle in his hand. I thanked the two men and hurried back home. 

And there I was, one week later, in my third row seat. I stared, enraptured, at the stage, as the maharaja spoke in his deep, powerful voice, "Open the doors!" 

I turned towards the doors, expecting the courtesan to be standing there, resplendent in her beauty, but the doors didn't open. The maharaja turned towards the wings and whispered something fiercely. "Open the doors!" he intoned again. The music was at its climax, and my heart was racing as the doors opened, and there she was, the beautiful courtesan-- 

Wait. This didn't seem right. There was the courtesan, gorgeous as ever, but she was kneeling, facing a tall man with dark hair and a long, white coat, who was holding her by the shoulders. 

They both looked out at the audience, seemingly as surprised to see us as we were to see them. There was a long silence, while everyone, even the cast, waited with baited breath for the situation to become clearer. 

It was the maharajah who broke the silence. "Ah ha ha!" he forced out a laugh. "I am not fooled! Though he has shaved of his beard, and adopts a disguise, mine eyes do not lie! For it is he, the same penniless sitar player!" 

There was a general "oh" of understanding from the audience, then a smattering of applause at this new and clever twist in the plot. 

The orchestra struck another chord, and the sitar player walked down the steps, standing tall and pulling the courtesan behind him. When they reached the bottom, he threw her to the floor, where she lay, coughing. The audience gasped. 

The sitar player looked up. I could've sworn his skin was a shade darker before. "This woman is yours now." He sounds almost Scottish. I thought he was Spanish. "I've paid my _whore_." I gasped as he dropped money at her feet. What had happened? 

The courtesan looked up at him as the money fluttered down, with tears running down her cheeks. He looked down at her, straight in the eye. In a voice so low I could barely hear him, he said, "I owe you nothing. And you are nothing to me." His voice broke as he spoke next, and it appeared that he was holding back tears. "Thank you for curing me of my ridiculous obsession with love." 

With that, he walked slowly off of the stage and down the stairs into the aisle. He stopped in front of a man sitting on the aisle in the front row, and just looked at him. A look so full of pain, it hurt to watch. Then he continued down the aisle, shedding his coat as he went. He didn't look back. On the stage, the courtesan, _his _courtesan, still lay on the floor, looking up at him desperately, her gaze full of almost as much pain as his. As the penniless sitar player passed by my seat, I saw the silvery tracks that tears had left on his handsome face, and I thought that either he was a superb actor, or those tears were real. 

Back on stage, the maharaja had sprung to life again. He moved to the courtesan, saying, "This sitar player doesn't love you. See, he flees the kingdom!" He knelt beside her, and I saw his lips move as he whispered something quietly to the woman, actor to actress. She shook her head slightly, looking utterly defeated. 

He stood slowly, pulling her up with him. "And now, my bride, it is time for you to raise your voice to the heavens, and say your wedding vows." 

The courtesan shook her head, still crying, barely able to stand on her own. 

The maharajah spoke: "Sing to our gods your--" 

But he was cut off by a long yell, and then the sound of a voice calling desperately from above: "The greatest thing you'll ever learn is just to love and be loved in return!" 

There was complete silence. My eyes were on the courtesan, who swayed, looking as if she was about to pass out. Then, she turned slowly, facing towards the audience. And she sang. 

_Never knew... I could feel... like this..._

_Like I've never seen the sky... before_

__She sang slowly, her voice catching on suppressed tears. There was no accompanying music, but her voice filled the whole theater. With every note she sang, her resolve seemed to stiffen. I suddenly realized that the sitar player was still in the theater, and he had stopped walking. 

_Want to vanish inside your kiss_

_Every day I'm loving you_

_More and more._

__She was now standing on her own, and she walked forward slowly and gracefully, as the sitar player turned toward her again. 

_Listen to my heart, can you hear it sing?_

_Come back to me, and forgive everything!_

__She poured all she had into those last two notes, exposing her soul. She ended, and gasped for breath. She then looked up, her face full of tender love, and finished. 

_Seasons may change_

_Winter to spring_

__"I love you," 

_Until the end of time_

__The world seemed stopped as the whole theater, cast included, waited, for something, _anything_, to happen. The courtesan stood up tall, have done all she could, and thrown herself at the sitar player's feet. Now everything was hanging on his response. He swallowed, and then-- 

_Come what may_

__His voice rang clear as the audience turned as one to look at him, and the courtesan smiled and let out her breath, full of relief and happiness. 

_Come what may_

As he and the courtesan moved toward each other instinctively, and he once again passed by my seat, I was sure that this was not the same sitar player as before, with the gravely voice and abrupt ways. There was something going on here, behind the scenes, that was being played out in front of an audience. 

_Come what may_

_Come what may_

_I will love you_

_Until my dying day_

The sitar player had now reached the stage, and her voice joined with his, and they entwined together as only two lovers' could. 

_Come what may_

__They came together, fitting seamlessly into each others arms. 

_Come what may_

_Come what may_

_I will love you_

_Until my dying..._

__At that moment, they were cut off by a yell from above, as the magical sitar swung down from the ceiling, screaming indecipherably, "Christian! He's got a gun!" 

The "sitar" landed on the ground, and in the moment of quiet that followed, he shouted, "They're trying to kill you!!" 

And then pandemonium broke loose. 

The maharajah was bellowing at the "sitar," who was gesticulating and pointing at something, while the chorus girls were looking harassed and confused, the audience laughed heartily, and the lovers just surveyed it all from each other's arms. 

A bearded man who I recognized as the one who sold me my ticket ran into the center of the stage, yelled, "_Vive la vie de boheme!_" and set off an explosion. Everyone on stage was running around, not seeming to know what to do, when suddenly, the doors where the lovers had been exposed were thrown open, and a man who looked suspiciously like the _other_ penniless sitar player was standing there. He shouted, "All right! No problem, go back to work!" 

In the silence that followed this statement, the sitar turned and pointed at the audience, more specifically, the man in the front row aisle seat, and sang: 

_No matter what you say_

_The show is ending our way_

__The young hairless man who had been selling tickets with the old man ran on stage from where he had been conducting the orchestra, and commenced singing with the group. 

_For freedom, beauty,_

___Truth and love!_

_You can't fool_

_The children of the revolution_

A medley of songs broke out, everyone singing their own parts, dancing around the stage, while the sitar player and the courtesan stood front and center, singing while staring into each others eyes. 

The music reached its climax, with what sounded like a gun blast, and the two lovers turned towards each other, holding hands, oblivious of the world going on around him. 

The man in the front aisle seat stood up abruptly, and stormed angrily down the aisle, until something landed with a thud in the aisle behind him. A gun. 

On stage, the song had gone back to its original form. 

_I will love you_

_Until my dying..._

__The man turned and picked up the gun, running towards the stage, screaming, "My way! My way!" The maharajah moved in front of him suddenly and punched him powerfully in the face, sending him reeling backwards. The gun flew out of his hands, and I didn't see where it landed, because my eyes were fixed on the stage, where the last note rang out. 

_Day!_

__The curtain closed and I jumped to my feet cheering along with the rest of the audience, all rules of etiquette forgotten. My heart was overflowing with pure joy, as tears streamed down my face. All of a sudden, life seemed so perfect and clear. Those brick walls couldn't choke me forever. I would get away. I was going to live _my _life _my _way. 

My way. 

The cheering continued for a full five minutes, and the cast hadn't even come back for a bow. 

Once the cheering had stopped, the audience slowly began to filter out of the theater. A voice in my ear said, "Did you enjoy the show?" 

I turned, and found myself face to face with a very old childhood friend of mine, whom I hadn't seen in a very long time. 

"Yes," I said to him. "Very much." 

He smiled. "May I escort you home?" 

I smiled back. "No. But you may escort me anywhere else." 

He offered his arm, and I took it. 

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Disclaimer: I don't own Moulin Rouge or any of its characters, and no copyright infringement is intended. All songs used were in the movie. I used the original script for some references, mainly dialogue. 

A/N: This is my first ever story, so please review!!! Constructive criticism and lots of flattery would be much appreciated. Also, I was thinking of doing a sequel of sorts, and I'd like some opinions on that. Just a side note: this piece was originally title From the Third Row (Which title is better?!?!?! I can't decide!!) 

Thanks for reading all the way to the end! 

-Zea 

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